


There's beauty in destruction

by word_shaker



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Revolutionary group, etc - Freeform, kinda dystopian i guess, oppresive government
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_shaker/pseuds/word_shaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire hadn't asked for any of this.</p><p>Okay, he might have gotten involved with a bunch of revolutionaries who planned to take down the Government. He might have made snarky comments on their meetings, drawn doodles on the margins of their documents, let them use the café as their place of conspiracy, he might have befriended them and even fallen in love with one. But he hadn't asked for ANY of this.<br/>Right?<br/>RIGHT?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The break-in, codename "Life Sometimes Is A Bitch"

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfic. I don't own anything except for the plot.  
> Also, English is not my first language and this is unbeta'd so there might (there WILL) be plenty of mistakes. Sorry about that.  
> Hope someone reads and enjoys it!

First of all, Grantaire wanted to say he didn’t ask for any of this.

See, when he arrived home after a ten-hour shift at the Musain, all he felt like doing was lying down on his bed and maybe groaning a little. But, oh no, God forbid life went actually as he planned it.

So, when he opened the door to his tiny apartment, what he found was five people fretting around his couch, blood scattered around the floor and his finest liquor half gone. He dropped his keys.

‘What. The fuck.’

Bahorel came to him first. He had a split lip and looked like he was about to pass out.

‘Grantaire, we’re so sorry. There was a raid. We needed to hide-’

‘Hide _what_ , exactly? Because if it’s bigger than a matchbox you have it bloody tough, you know.’ He had a habit of ranting when he was startled. ‘Have you _noticed_ the ridiculous size of this apartment, Bahorel? Christ’s sake, and how the _hell_ did you all get in here!?’

‘…You do remember you gave me a spare key, right?’

A pause.

‘Okay. Fair point. Still. You could ring first. Give a guy some warning.’

‘This was unexpected,’ spoke Combeferre, getting up from the arm of the couch. ‘We’ve been compromised. Will you help us?’

Grantaire oggled his friends for a solid minute, trying to determine if he was drunk and hadn’t realised yet or if it all was an elaborate prank from Courfeyrac.

But all of their faces were dead serious and bruised. They looked tired and afraid, and he hadn’t seen most of them in weeks, damnit. He sighed.

‘Fuck, alright. What am I supposed to hide? Government secrets? Please tell me it’s something about aliens.’

‘Him,’Combeferre stepped aside so he could see. ‘You have to hide him.’

Lying on his couch, battered but very much awake, was Enjolras. He had a hint of a black eye, a long gash across his jaw and he could see the part of the bandages under his t-shirt.

His breath caught in his throat. _Apollo_. Bloody and beaten after battle.

What a glorious sight.

What a major fucking disaster.

He locked eyes with Éponine, who had the decency to look apologetic for a second before shrugging.

‘You've  _got_ to be fucking kidding me.’

‘I told you he wouldn’t want to’, spoke Enjolras, his voice strained. He probably had a broken rib. ‘Get me back. It’s too risky to involve-’

‘Hush’, Combeferre was kind, but firm. ‘Grantaire?’

They were endangered. _Enjolras_ was endangered.

What was he supposed to say?

‘Okay. You knew I would do it. And I _will_ do it. But you _have_ to explain-’

Combeferre cut him off with a fierce hug. Over his shoulder, Grantaire could see Enjolras looking at him with an unreadable expression.

‘You are saving a life today.’

‘Fuck, Combeferre, don’t put that kind of responsability on my shoulders.’

‘Sorry but we’ve got to run. If they follow us, we don’t want them to get here. We’ll be in touch.’

‘But-’

Before he could add another word, the group was leaving his apartment in a hurry, closing the door behind them.

Grantaire looked at _anything_ except Enjolras, the blond revolutionary, and apparently a wanted man. Now in hiding. In his apartment.

‘Well,’ the blond revolutionary said awkwardly. ‘It looks like I’ll be staying, then.’

None of it.

He didn’t ask for ANY of this.


	2. The visitor, codename: “Café latte with a dash of conspiracy”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i suck at consistency hah what a surprise (not) but here's chapter 2!

_Eight months earlier_

Ironically, it all started in a similar way.

It was the beginning of March. It was cold. And it was late.

Grantaire – R, as in _grand-erre_ , because if his whole fucking life was a joke he intended at least to make it into a good one – was almost done cleaning. The ‘CLOSED’ sign had been hanging on the front door of the café for at least twenty minutes and Musichetta had already left.

He was as exhausted as anyone would be after working for eleven hours straight. As much as he loved his job, his feet hurt and his eyes stung so all he wanted was to get home so he could sleep seven goddamn hours (still in his jeans) before having to go back to work.

He was seriously considering sleeping on the counter when there was a pounding on the door. His head snapped up and he sighed in irritation when an unknown guy smiled at him through the glass. Grantaire opened the door a bit.

‘We’re closed. It says so in the sign,’ he pointed at said sign, sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘See? I’m guessing you can read. If you can’t, now you know. We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.’

‘Can I just hide behind the counter for, like, fifteen seconds tops?’

Grantaire blinked.

‘Come again?’

Some metres away, they heard footsteps – boot-clad feet stomping – and the mysterious visitor paled. There was a bruise in his cheekbone.

If the Security Corps are looking for him, he’s probably done something against the law, Grantaire concluded. He is most likely a criminal.

And Grantaire was a sucker for the underdogs.

‘Fuck it, okay. Quick, come in.’

Stranger ran into the Musain and jumped behind the counter while he locked the door again and picked up a rag to clean the same table he’d cleaned five minutes ago. Barely a moment later, there was pounding on the door again, much stronger this time, and the strangers wore the unmistakeable dark blue uniforms of the Security Corps.

‘Have you seen a man around here?’ barked one of them when he opened the door.

Grantaire resisted the urge to be sarcastic and shook his head.

‘We’ve been closed for more than half an hour now. I’ve not seen anyone since then. I’m sorry.’

They looked over his shoulder into the café, but the exhaustion in Grantaire’s voice apparently was proof enough. They probably thought he was too tired to lie.

What a fuckload of idiots. As if.

A while after they had left, the guy reappeared from behind the counter. He was not too tall, had curly hair and one of the most charming smiles he had ever seen.

‘Aren’t you too pretty to be a criminal? ’Grantaire asked, a hint of humour in his voice.

Stranger laughed.

‘My name is Courfeyrac, and thank you for saving my ass tonight. As a matter of fact I am a criminal, at least that’s what _they_ say. What’s your name?’

‘Grantaire. So, Courfeyrac, what have you done? Killed a man?’

‘I put up some posters.’ Courfeyrac answered, a glint in his eye. ‘I have a… rather interesting group of friends. Maybe I’ll introduce you sometime.’

‘Will they end up behind my counter too?’

Courfeyrac laughed again before heading towards the door. And then he turned back.

‘Actually, can I take a latte to go? I’m a bit thirsty and still have some things to do.’

Grantaire stared.

‘Seriously?’

‘I’ll pay and everything.’


	3. The call, codename: "Questions [about sanity]"

Two days after, when the alarm went off at five thirty in the morning, Grantaire was very tempted to ignore it. However, when the image of Musichetta in all her ( _six-foot-tall, dark skinned goddess, queen of murderous glances_ ) glory popped up on his mind, he quickly discarded the idea.

Showering brought him a little closer to actually human, and by the time he was dressed and had some coffee, he’d found again the will to live.

The streets were almost empty. It was five past six, and he lived just two blocks away from the establishment so he didn’t have to take the subway – small blessings. He opened the Musain and prepared everything so he could serve the early-morning-caffeine-addicts their fixes. He had a long shift ahead of him.

It had been Musichetta’s idea to rent and restore the place two years ago. It took loads of money and effort to turn it from the ruin it had been into the cosy café it was today. Their budget was almost nothing and they still had debts to pay, so they worked ten to thirteen hour shifts because they couldn’t afford to pay another employee. Even if the Musain wasn’t crowded most of the time, it was still hard work.

He’d been working for three hours when Musichetta came in. She smiled at him and left her bag next to the register.

‘How’s everything going, dear?’ she asked in that contralto voice of hers.

‘Peachy,’ he answered, pecking her cheek. ‘Your shift doesn’t start until three. What are you doing here? Checking on your staff?’

She smacked the back of his head lightly. In paperwork and in salary, they were co-owners, and co-workers, so neither of them was the boss. But, come on, one just had to take a look at her.

‘This café is a democracy. There are no superiors here.’

‘Don’t say the D word too loud, ‘Chetta. The Corps will come after you,’ he only half joked. ‘Speaking of which. I had the _most_ interesting night two days ago.’

‘Do tell.’

And so, he told her, expecting a laugh or maybe some gasps. What he did not expect was the range of emotions that passed over his friend’s face when she listened to him: fear, irritation and, finally, surprise.

Suddenly, she grabbed his arm and dragged him to the farthest part of the café before whispering:

‘You’re sure his name was Courfeyrac, right?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Musichetta, yes. Does it matter?’

‘Wait here a second.’

She went back to her bag, pulled out a mobile phone – not hers, it looked like a burner – and called a number. The conversation was short and spoken in low, hushed tones. When she was done, he was very tempted to check her into the nearest mental facility.

‘’Chetta, what the _hell_?’

‘We have been friends for a long time, R, so I’m gonna offer you a way out before pulling you into this,’ she was oddly serious. ‘I have a question for you. Depending on the answer, we forget this whole thing, or we don’t.’

‘ _I_ have a question. Is this a rehearsal for some pretentious drama class you’re attending?’

‘Don’t be a dick. I’m for real with this. So, the question,’ she tuned down her voice until it was barely a whisper. ‘Do you want to know more about what was written on those posters?’

Grantaire felt his heart beat faster.

‘Fuck yes.’

‘Okay. How good are you at keeping secrets?’

He scoffed, almost offended.

‘Musichetta, darling, have we _met_?’

‘Sorry, this is the standard way of approach.’

‘Approach to what?’

And then, Musichetta smiled broadly. It was so natural, he felt himself relaxing, finding comfort in that known gesture. There it was: the brief instant of calm, just before the storm.

Just before he went and got himself neck deep in shit.

‘R,’ Musichetta was still smiling. ‘Have you heard about Les Amis de l’ABC?’

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr in recolectora-de-palabras.tumblr.com   
> Come say hi!


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